13 years of being with my wife. 13 years. And now they are down the tube.
Being with someone for so long you learn the ins and outs of that person. I got with Hossmom when she was 18. I love the teens.
We have been through many things since then and now have 2 kids, a mortgage and the occasional hemorrhoid. We have a good marriage. In fact, I would say that we have a great marriage.
We have always gotten along great, rarely fight and respect each other. I even get the nookie when I want it. Except when she’s pregnant, then not so much. We are not having any more kids.
It’s a good marriage, not so much of convenience except for the before mentioned nookie on demand. Our marriage is golden and it is really because of one specific thing: Boundaries.
For 13 years we lived by this. You would think that married people, especially people that have been through childbirth together, would have no boundaries.
I have seen my wife at her absolute worst. Let me tell you, it’s not pretty when you are in that operating room watching your wife give birth. The beauty of the miracle of life. Bullshit. It’s disgusting. There’s blood and a lot of slim over everything. And both of you are there with a dumbass look on your face.
And my wife has seen me at my absolute worst. Not so much physically, but emotionally. That’s the part of me that I don’t like showing a whole lot. Let me tell you, it’s not a pretty sight when 250 pound Hossman breaks down. The term “blubbering whale” comes to mind. Let me amend that: Sissy Blubbering Whale. There, that’s much better. I’m a pussy.
But our marriage, believe it or not, is based on boundaries. Specifically, one boundary.
Never, under any circumstances, poop in front of each other.
That’s the secret to a good marriage. That’s what will make the difference from you coming home to your wife at night to living at the local shithole motel. Because, let’s face it, divorced wives are vindictive and they will all claim that you kicked new born puppies while emailing state secrets to Iran.
By living with the “no poop” in front of me rule, I have been able to avoid any unfounded accusations.
I have lived by it for 13 years. I have taken dumps in backyards and on fences rather than poop in front of my wife. I have eaten 3 pound blocks of cheese to avoid it. I have deliberately pulled fire alarms to get her out of the way so that I could poop in private.
Unfortunately, THE HUT that I now live in has finally broken me. This 1,000 square feet of crapdom has done me in. It has smashed the boundary.
This rent house has only one bathroom. But it’s not so much a bathroom as a death trap. The shower squirts water from the top onto whatever blow-dryers you have laying around. I have brained myself twice, hard, by just sitting down on the toilet. The door is so close that you have to sit up straight back on the crapper or risk a hematoma. And I swear to god that the walls bleed.
We are stuck in this house until the end of May, that’s when our new home closes and we can move in. Just about 3 weeks away and we move into a home with 2 and ½ baths.
In my old house I had my own “pooping” bathroom. It was to always remain open and unused until I needed it. Sometimes I miss that house so very, very much.
This is probably a good time to mention that I have a slight case of IBS, mostly with greasy foods. For example, I will die of hunger before I eat popcorn at a movie.
To my ever-loving nightmare, a couple of days ago I ate a greasy burrito. I knew that I shouldn’t do it but I wrongly thought that hey, we are going to be home, we are not going anywhere, Mr. Poopster was going to be right there, no need to worry. Not smart, I know.
This is why I could never be president. I would be shaking the hand with the Russians, showing Hossman strength, and all of a sudden I would have to run out of the room with little greasy farts following me out. I would nuke them just so that I would never have to face them again.
A couple hours after the burrito incident, I was sitting quietly while my wife was in the shower. I felt a slight rumble in my stomach. Then the rumble got worse. It got loud enough that it spooked my dog. This is the same dog that farts at least 13 times a day. He knows what is coming. When I started to let it go it wasn’t pretty. It smelled. I admit it. It smelled bad enough that I actually seemed to offend the farting dog. Thanks dude, that makes me feel so much better, man’s best friend and all that.
My stomach clenched and I knew that we were at threat level red. We had received the “go” code and nothing was going to stop it. Oh, I tried. I squeezed and started doing some Yoga breathing. But Yoga relaxes things, so that probably wasn’t such a good call.
I prayed, Dear God in Heaven, please take away this poop so that I don’t have to poop in front of my wife. Our very marriage, our sacred marriage, depends on this. 13 years of marriage depends on this.
The good lord, in all his wisdom, decided to smite me.
Fuck it, I had to roll. I ran to the bathroom and kicked open the door. My wife started turn off the water and ask me what was going on.
I had my pants down to about my knees and was only hovering over Mr. Pooper when it came. I screamed at my wife “Don’t Look!” but it was too late, she had seen.
I begged her to get back into the shower and turn the water on. Then I turned on the faucet to the sink to cover up the accompanied orchestra that was playing from my ass. The water sound was not enough to mask it. I then asked my wife to sing, very loudly, hoping that this would do it.
I joined in but only between grunts and wheezes. Is it love when your wife serenades you while you poop or is this the beginning of the end of our marriage?
This was a ten minute variety and my wife stayed in the shower. I’m sure terrified at her first glimpse of the hell that I was unleashing. The steam from the hot shower started to mix with my own fumes and…………….
Well, it just wasn’t pretty. My wife was laughing so hard that I am also pretty sure that she peed herself.
13 years and that was the only barrier that remained between us. It was the Great Wall of China of our marriage and now the huns of my weak stomach have felled it.
I hate this house and I blame it for ruining my marriage.